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Mary Barton
Elizabeth Gaskell
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Mary Barton
Elizabeth Gaskell
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Elizabeth Gaskell uses her novel Mary Barton to compare and contrast the rich and the working class. She links the plight of the working class to that of the plight of Victorian women at the hands of the men in their lives. A classic novel about love and redemption.
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Topic
LetteraturaSubtopic
ClassiciThe Mill on FireāJem Wilson to the Rescue
āLearned he was; nor bird nor insect flew,
But he its leafy home and history knew:
Nor wild-flower decked the rock, nor moss the well,
But he its name and qualities could tell.ā
āELLIOTT.
There is a class of men in Manchester, unknown even to many of the inhabitants, and whose existence will probably be doubted by many, who yet may claim kindred with all the noble names that science recognises. I said in āManchester,ā but they are scattered all over the manufacturing districts of Lancashire. In the neighbourhood of Oldham there are weavers, common hand-loom weavers, who throw the shuttle with unceasing sound, though Newtonās āPrincipiaā lies open on the loom, to be snatched at in work hours, but revelled over in meal times, or at night. Mathematical problems are received with interest, and studied with absorbing attention by many a broad- spoken, common-looking factory-hand. It is perhaps less astonishing that the more popularly interesting branches of natural history have their warm and devoted followers among this class. There are botanists among them, equally familiar with either the Linnaean or the Natural system, who know the name and habitat of every plant within a dayās walk from their dwellings; who steal the holiday of a day or two when any particular plant should be in flower, and tying up their simple food in their pocket-handkerchiefs, set off with single purpose to fetch home the humble-looking weed. There are entomologists, who may be seen with a rude-looking net, ready to catch any winged insect, or a kind of dredge, with which they rake the green and slimy pools; practical, shrewd, hard-working men, who pore over every new specimen with real scientific delight. Nor is it the common and more obvious divisions of Entomology and Botany that alone attract these earnest seekers after knowledge. Perhaps it may be owing to the great annual town-holiday of Whitsun-week so often falling in May or June, that the two great beautiful families of Ephemeridae and Phryganidae have been so much and so closely studied by Manchester workmen, while they have in a great measure escaped general observation. If you will refer to the preface to Sir J. E. Smithās Life (I have it not by me, or I would copy you the exact passage), you will find that he names a little circumstance corroborative of what I have said. Being on a visit to Roscoe, of Liverpool, he made some inquiries of him as to the habitat of a very rare plant, said to be found in certain places in Lancashire. Mr. Roscoe knew nothing of the plant; but stated, that if any one could give him the desired information, it would be a hand-loom weaver in Manchester, whom he named. Sir J. E. Smith proceeded by boat to Manchester, and on arriving at that town, he inquired of the porter who was carrying his luggage if he could direct him to So-and-So.
āOh, yes,ā replied the man. āHe does a bit in my wayā; and, on further investigation, it turned out that both the porter and his friend the weaver were skilful botanists, and able to give Sir J. E. Smith the very information which he wanted.
Such are the tastes and pursuits of some of the thoughtful, little understood, working-men of Manchester.
And Margaretās grandfather was one of these. He was a little wiry-looking old man, who moved with a jerking motion, as if his limbs were worked by a string like a childās toy, with dun-coloured hair lying thin and soft at the back and sides of his head; his forehead was so large it seemed to overbalance the rest of his face, which had, indeed, lost its natural contour by the absence of all the teeth. The eyes absolutely gleamed with intelligence; so keen, so observant, you felt as if they were almost wizard-like. Indeed, the whole room looked not unlike a wizardās dwelling. Instead of pictures were hung rude wooden frames of impaled insects; the little table was covered with cabalistic books; and beside them lay a case of mysterious instruments, one of which Job Legh was using when his grand-daughter entered.
On her appearance he pushed his spectacles up so as to rest midway on his forehead, and gave Mary a short, kind welcome. But Margaret he caressed as a mother caresses her first-born; stroking her with tenderness, and almost altering his voice as he spoke to her.
Mary looked round on the odd, strange things she had never seen at home, and which seemed to her to have a very uncanny look.
āIs your grandfather a fortune-teller?ā whispered she to her new friend.
āNo,ā replied Margaret, in the same voice; ābut you are not the first as has taken him for such. He is only fond of such things as most folks know nothing about.ā
āAnd do you know aught about them too?ā
āI know a bit about some of the things grandfather is fond on; just because heās fond on āem, I tried to learn about them.ā
āWhat things are these?ā said Mary, struck with the weird-looking creatures that sprawled around the room in their roughly-made glass cases.
But she was not prepared for the technical names, which Job Legh pattered down on her ear, on which they fell like hail on a skylight; and the strange language only bewildered her more than ever. Margaret saw the state of the case, and came to the rescue.
āLook, Mary, at this horrid scorpion. He gave me such a fright: I am all of a twitter yet when I think of it. Grandfather went to Liverpool one Whitsun-week to go strolling about the docks and pick up what he could from the sailors, who often bring some queer thing or another from the hot countries they go to; and so he sees a chap with a bottle in his hand, like a druggistās physic-bottle; and says grandfather, āWhat have ye gotten there?ā So the sailor holds it up, and grandfather knew it was a rare kind oā scorpion, not common even in the East Indies where the man came from; and says he, āHow did you catch this fine fellow, for he wouldnāt be taken for nothing, Iām thinking?ā And the man said as how when they were unloading the ship heād found him lying behind a bag of rice, and he thought the cold had killed him, for he was not squashed nor injured a bit. He did not like to part with any of the spirit out of his grog to put the scorpion in, but slipped him into the bottle, knowing there were folks enow who would give him something for him. So grandfather gives him a shilling.ā
āTwo shillings,ā interrupted Job Legh; āand a good bargain it was.ā
āWell! grandfather came home as proud as Punch, and pulled the bottle out of his pocket. But you see thā scorpion were doubled up, and grandfather thought I couldnāt fairly see how big he was. So he shakes him out right before the fire; and a good warm one it was, for I was ironing, I remember. I left off ironing and stooped down over him, to look at him better, and grandfather got a book, and began to read how this very kind were the most poisonous and vicious species, how their bite were often fatal, and then went on to read how people who were bitten got swelled, and screamed with pain. I was listening hard, but as it fell out, I never took my eyes off the creature, though I could not haā told I was watching it. Suddenly it seemed to give a jerk, and before I could speak it gave another, and in a minute it was as wild as it could be, running at me just like a mad dog.ā
āWhat did you do?ā asked Mary.
āMe! why, I jumped first on a chair, and then on all the things Iād been ironing on the dresser, and I screamed for grandfather to come up by me, but he did not hearken to me.ā
āWhy, if Iād come up by thee, whoād haā caught the creature, I should like to know?ā
āWell, I begged grandfather to crush it, and I had the iron right over it once, ready to drop, but grandfather begged me not to hurt it in that way. So I couldnāt think what heād have, for he hopped round the room as if he were sore afraid, for all he begged me not to injure it. At last he goes to thā kettle, and lifts up the lid, and peeps in. What on earth is he doing that for, thinks I; heāll never drink his tea with a scorpion running free and easy about the room. Then he takes the tongs, and he settles his spectacles on his nose, and in a minute he had lifted the creature up by thā leg, and dropped him into the boiling water.ā
āAnd did that kill him?ā said Mary.
āAy, sure enough; he boiled for longer time than grandfather liked, though. But I was so afeard of his coming round again, I ran to the public-house for some gin, and grandfather filled the bottle, and then we poured off the water, and picked him out of the kettle, and dropped him into the bottle, and he were there about a twelvemonth.ā
āWhat brought him to life at first?ā asked Mary.
āWhy, you see, he were never really dead, only torpidāthat is, dead asleep with the cold, and our good fire brought him round.ā
āIām glad father does not care for such things,ā said Mary.
āAre you? Well, Iām often downright glad grandfather is so fond of his books, and his creatures, and his plants. It does my heart good to see him so happy, sorting them all at home, and so ready to go in search of more, whenever heās a spare day. Look at him now! heās gone back to his books, and heāll be as happy as a king, working away till I make him go to bed. It keeps him silent, to be sure; but so long as I see him earnest, and pleased, and eager, what does that matter? Then, when he has his talking bouts, you canāt think how much he has to say. Dear grandfather! you donāt know how happy we are!ā
Mary wondered if the dear grandfather heard all this, for Margaret did not speak in an undertone; but no! he was far too deep, and eager in solving a problem. He did not even notice Maryās leave-taking, and she went home with the feeling that she had that night made the acquaintance of two of the strangest people she ever saw in her life. Margaret, so quiet, so commonplace, until her singing powers were called forth; so silent from home, so cheerful and agreeable at home; and her grandfather so very different to any one Mary had ever seen. Margaret had said he was not a fortune-teller, but she did not know whether to believe her.
To resolve her doubts, she told the history of the evening to her father, who was interested by her account, and curious to see and judge for himself. Opportunities are not often wanting where inclination goes before, and ere the end of that winter Mary looked upon Margaret almost as an old friend. The latter would bring her work when Mary was likely to be at home in the evenings and sit with her; and Job Legh would put a book and his pipe in his pocket and just step round the corner to fetch his grandchild, ready for a talk if he found Barton in; ready to pull out pipe and book if the girls wanted him to wait, and John was still at his club. In short, ready to do whatever would give pleasure to his darling Margaret.
I do not know what points of resemblance, or dissimilitude (for this joins people as often as that) attracted the two girls to each other. Margaret had the great charm of possessing good strong common sense, and do you not perceive how involuntarily this is valued? It is so pleasant to have a friend who possesses the power of setting a difficult question in a clear light; whose judgment can tell what is best to be done; and who is so convinced of what is āwisest, best,ā that in consideration of the end, all difficulties in the way diminish. People admire talent, and talk about their admiration. But they value common sense without talking about it, and often without knowing it.
So Mary and Margaret grew in love one toward the other; and Mary told many of her feelings in a way she had never done before to any one. Most of her foibles also were made known to Margaret, but not all. There was one cherished weakness still concealed from every one. It concerned a lover, not beloved, but favoured by fancy. A gallant, handsome young man; butānot beloved. Yet Mary hoped to meet him every day in her walks, blushed when she heard his name, and tried to think of him as her future husband, and above all, tried to think of herself as his future wife. Alas! poor Mary! Bitter woe did thy weakness work thee.
She had other lovers. One or two would gladly have kept her company, but she held herself too high, they said. Jem Wilson said nothing, but loved on and on, ever more fondly; he hoped against hope; he would not give up, for it seemed like giving up life to give up thought of Mary. He did not dare to look to any end of all this; the present, so that he saw her, touched the hem of her garment, was enough. Surely, in time, such deep hope would beget love.
He would not relinquish hope, and yet her coldness of manner was enough to daunt any man; and it made Jem more despairing than he would acknowledge for a long time even to himself.
But one evening he came round by Bartonās house, a willing messenger for his father, and opening the door saw Margaret sitting asleep before the fire. She had come in to speak to Mary; and worn-out by a long, working, watching night, she fell asleep in the genial warmth.
An old-fashioned saying about a pair of gloves came into Jemās mind, and stepping gently up, he kissed Margaret with a friendly kiss.
She awoke, and perfectly understanding the thing, she said, āFor shame of yourself, Jem! What would Mary say?ā
Lightly said, lightly answered.
āSheād nobbut say, practice makes perfect.ā And they both laughed. But the words Margaret had said rankled in Jemās mind. Would Mary care? Would she care in the very least? They seemed to call for an answer by night and by day; and Jem felt that his heart told him Mary was quite indifferent to any action of his. Still he loved on, and on, ever more fondly.
Maryās father was well aware of the nature of Jem Wilsonās feelings for his daughter, but he took no notice of them to any one, thinking Mary full young yet for the cares of married life, and unwilling, too, to entertain the idea of parting with her at any time, however distant. But he welcomed Jem at his house, as he would have done his fatherās son, whatever were his motives for coming; and now and then admitted the thought, that Mary might do worse, when her time came, than marry Jem Wilson, a steady workman at a good trade, a good son to his parents, and a fine manly spirited chapāat least when Mary was not by; for when she was present he watched her too closely, and too anxiously, to have much of what John Barton called āspunkā in him.
It was towards the end of February, in that year, and a bitter black frost had lasted for many weeks. The keen east wind had long since swept the streets clean, though in a gusty day the dust would rise like pounded ice, and make peopleās faces quite smart with the cold force with which it blew against them. Houses, sky, people, and everything looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all over with a dark shade of Indian ink. There was some reason for this grimy appearance on human beings, whatever there might be for the dun looks of the landscape; for soft water had become an article not even to be purchased; and the poor washerwomen might be seen vainly trying to procure a little by breaking the thick grey ice that coated the ditches and ponds in the neighbourhood. People prophesied a long continuance to this already lengthened frost; said the spring would be very late; no spring fashions required; no summer clothing chased for a short uncertain summer. Indeed, there was no end to the evil prophesied during the continuance of that bleak east wind.
Mary hurried home one evening, just as daylight was fading, from Miss Simmondsā, with her shawl held up to her mouth, and her head bent as if in deprecation of the meeting wind. So she did not perceive Margaret till she was close upon her at the very turning into the court.
āBless me, Margaret! is that you? Where are you bound to?ā
āTo nowhere but your own house (that is, if youāll take me in). Iāve a job of work to finish to-night; mourning, as must be in time for the funeral to-morrow; and grandfather has been out moss- hunting, and will not be home till late.ā
āOh, how charming it will be! Iāll help you if youāre backward. Have you much to do?ā
āYes, I only got the order yesterday at noon; and thereās three girls beside the mother; and what with trying on and matching the stuff (for there was not enough in the piece they chose first), Iām above a bit behindhand. Iāve the skirts all to make. I kept that work till candlelight; and the sleeves, to say nothing of little bits to the bodies; for the missis is very particular, and I could scarce keep from smiling while they were crying so, really taking on sadly Iām sure, to hear first one and then tāother clear up to notice the set of her gown. They werenāt to be misfits, I promise you, though they were in such trouble.ā
āWell, Margaret, youāre right welcome, as you know, and Iāll sit down and help you with pleasure, though I was tired enough of sewing to-night at Miss Simmondsā!ā
By this time Mary had broken up the raking coal, and lighted her candle; and Margaret settled herself to her work on one side of the...